


yours, truly

by rnadison



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Accidental Confession, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, To All The Boys I've Loved Before but it's eldonado, between s1 and s2!, sam has a lil sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-06 06:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16383374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rnadison/pseuds/rnadison
Summary: Sam twirls his pen in his fingers. Peter. This is for Peter (theoretically). His best friend. What would he say (theoretically) to his best friend?His heart gives a little squeeze. His best friend. The exact reason Peter could never, and will never, see this letter.Or,Sam writes a letter of Things He Can Never, Ever, Ever say to Peter. Peter finds said letter and, in an act of journalistic curiosity, reads it.





	1. Chapter 1

_10/15/17_

~~_Dear Peter,_ ~~

~~_Pete,_ ~~

_Peter,_

_Hey, it’s me. Sam. Well, you probably already knew that. Bet you thought this was from some girl, huh? Remember when you said my handwriting looked like_

Sam frowns. He’s rambling again. He tears out the page from his notebook, and starts again.

_Peter,_

_I like you._

That out of the way, he has to sit back at his desk and train his gaze at a fixed point somewhere over Ms. Willis’ shoulder. He jiggles his leg underneath the desk in a futile attempt to work off the nervous, inexplicable energy that’s thrumming in his chest. This shouldn’t be so goddamn difficult; they’re just words on a piece of paper. No one’s going to see it but him. No one _can_ ever see it, least of all Peter.

Even so -- he wants it to be genuine. He has to get all this shit off his chest before he combusts, and everyone has to hose rainbow splatter off the walls.

Ms. Willis asks something about chi-squared. Everyone immediately ducks their head and pretends to be writing, hoping to not be mistaken as someone who knows the answer. Sam leans over his notebook again.

 _Okay, I said it. I like you._ ~~_I’ve always wanted to s_ ~~ _I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’m not even saying it out loud and I’m still nervous as hell._ ~~_You always make m_ ~~

_I guess the point of this is I wanted you to know, even if it’s just once. I like you -- like-like you. I have a crush on you. There, I phrased it, like, three different ways. So now there’s no way you can misunderstand (but, knowing you, you’ll find a way, I’m sure.) I’ve liked you since I was fifteen, but I can’t tell you how or why, exactly._ ~~_Guess my gaydar started beeping_ ~~ ~~_I think you just looked really good in that one j_ ~~ _Sorry, I’m bad at this._

Sam twirls his pen in his fingers. Peter. This is for Peter (theoretically). His best friend. What would he say (theoretically) to his best friend?

His heart gives a little squeeze. _His best friend._ The exact reason Peter could never, and will never, see this letter.

 _That’s all there is, I guess. Well -- no, it’s not. There’s more, tons more. I just don’t know how to say it. I’m not good with words like you are. The monologues you wrote for Vandal were killer, even if you did keep sending me revisions at 4 AM. You’re so goddamn stubborn, and anal-retentive. I always get on you about that, but I_ ~~_love_ ~~ _like that about you. You don’t give up._

Sam quirks an eyebrow at his own writing. Might as well self-indulge a little here.

_Okay, listen. You know I like you now, so I guess I’ll put the reasons why, ‘cause I know you’ll wanna know._

_Reasons I Like You:_

  * _You’re driven. You say you’re gonna do something, and you do it._


  * _You don’t care what people think about you._


  * _You can be bossy sometimes, a little black-and-white about things. Opinionated as all hell. But once someone (me) calls you out, you always apologize._


  * _You’re really good at remembering little things, like how I hate anything that’s orange-flavored, or that the root beer floats from Peach Valley are my favorite post-exam splurge._


  * ~~_You smell like every good childhood memory I’ve had_~~


  * _Your eyelashes are, like, stupid long and unfair. Even Gabi says so, and the girls on the Morning Show._ ~~ _If you really wanted, you could bat your eyelashes when you want something, and I wouldn’t say no._~~


  * _When you’re into something, you’re_ _into_ _something._


  * ~~_I just_~~ _I feel like you understand me, on a level that Dylan or Randall or even Gabi can ever hope to reach. We have a crazy ton of inside jokes and memories and laughs,_ _~~and I really can’t imagine my life without y~~_



_Wow, pretty gay, huh? Yikers._

The adrenaline is wearing off now, and his thoughts are finally becoming less muddled. Ms. Willis’ voice becomes mere white noise as he scribbles on:

_I know it’s pretty useless to say “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.” Because I know it will, if I ever told you this stuff. I mean, it’s 2017, I know you won’t care, but it’s one thing to be bi and another to have a crush on your straight best friend who gets off to American Apparel catalogs (do you still do that? What an analog way to do it, but okay)._

_You say that I’m confident, and comfortable in my own skin, because I do plays and I always ask the questions you dance around. And that’s true, to an extent. But look at me now, Peter, writing you a letter of things I’m too scared to say. Sometimes I do think about telling you everything. I think about just blurting it out: “Peter, I like you. I’ll be throwing myself off Southend Pier this afternoon, but I’m free for a date anytime before that.” Yeah, no. ~~I just don't think I can handle you rej~~_

_I don’t know._ ~~_I just want_ ~~

~~_It’s not fair how_ ~~

~~_I wish I could_ ~~

_I’ve never dated anyone, but I think I’d be a good boyfriend. I’ve watched enough rom coms (and you have too, ‘cause of me. Ha ha) to know what to do, like lending my jacket when they’re cold, and getting them flowers, and standing up for them. I’ve always wanted to go to sleep knowing someone’s thinking of me, and not the other way around._ ~~_In all honesty I had thought_ ~~

~~_I had kind of hoped_ ~~

Sam swallows thickly, jiggling his leg again. He’s already pretty much baring his soul here, so he might as well say it.

_Sometimes, I like to imagine what it’d be like if we were together. You tell me I’m a romantic, and God, it is so true. I can feel myself blushing as I write this, I’m so pathetic. Because I always had this feeling that maybe, you’d be my first. You’re already my first for so many things (first friend, first David Lynch movie experience, first co-creator of a successful Netflix series …), and I thought maybe ‘first boyfriend’ wouldn’t be so out of place._

_But still feels like you could be, too. These little moments in time where, just for a second, I can pretend you like me, too. Like when I look up and you’re already looking at me, or when you lean up against me when we’re watching movies, or when you laugh at one of my awful jokes that both of us know isn’t funny. But I know you’re just being Peter, my best friend since third grade. I know that’s all it’ll ever be, just studying and sleepovers and lazy weekends and me, wanting more._

The words look back at him almost pityingly, as if they too know the inexplicable longing now filling his chest.

 _So … I guess that’s all. Now you can REALLY say you know everything about me. Writing it all out feels good. ~~God,~~ _ ~~_I wish I could actually tell you all of this._ ~~ _Maybe I’ll give you this letter in, like, ten years, when I’m not so nervous anymore and we’re both nominated for our third Oscars._

~~_Sincerely,_ ~~

~~_Love,_ ~~

~~_Yours truly_ ~~

_Yours, truly,_

_Sam_

He signs off with his heart pounding and, feeling lighter than he has in ages with a touch of pointless anticipation, flips back to his Stat notes and looks up.

“Sam? What would the p-value be in this problem?”

Shit.

\-----------

The rest of the day is depressingly long. There's a lab in chemistry, a presentation in French, and ensemble scene work in drama. After school there’s callbacks for One Act Wonders, the night of student-written one acts, and Mr. Grove tells him he’s “very promising” (!!!).  And before he knows it it's six o’clock, and he's at home, sitting on his bed and scowling at his laptop over a bowl of peanut M&M’s.

Peter’s voice pulls him out of his exhausted reverie.

“Sam, is this your English notebook?”

Oh, right. Sam had told Peter he could use his Thomas Hardy notes for an essay. For someone who could analyze the meaning of a single shot in any given film like it’s nothing, he sure couldn’t do shit with a page of literature.

Sam doesn’t look up from his laptop.“Uh, yeah. Go ahead.” He looks up just as the notebook drops into Peter’s bag.

Peter plops down across from him on the bed, his own laptop and history textbook in hand. “Were we supposed to read the stuff on the Cold War?”

“Ugh, I hope not.”

They spend the better part of two hours complaining about the workload in senior year (“I swear the teachers are doing it on purpose”) and showing each other stupid tweets, and pointing at pictures on Reddit saying, “you.” Sam doesn’t really mind that nothing gets done during their supposed study sessions. It’s calm, and companionable, and every time Sam will do his best to ignore the funny little twinge in his chest when their fingers brush over the keyboard or something.

Peter’s gone by nine, like always, so Sam decides to phone it in and just go to bed early. Tomorrow would be better. He’s made pretty good progress on his history essay, and anyway, it’s not due til Friday.

He pulls off his joggers and tosses them across the back of his desk chair. His English notebook sits haphazardly among a hopeless pile of scholarship applications.

Huh. His English notebook.

He’s paging through his notes on Thomas Hardy before the confusion gives away to the cold numb of shock, and an invisible band tightens around Sam’s chest.

_Wrong notebook._

His mouth goes dry; he feels like he’s in a nightmare where he can’t scream. Every one of the worst-case scenarios is suddenly flashing through his mind like strobe lights. He feels like a Klaxon is being sounded in his ear.

_WRONG NOTEBOOK!!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is such a trope-y thing, I love it. accidental confessions ??? misunderstandings ?? miscommunications ?? oh sis... I live for it.
> 
> as always, come say hi to me on tumblr @connorsquarter!


	2. Chapter 2

In the quiet of his own room, Peter can _actually_ get some work done now. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy Sam’s company, or studying with him (he uses that term loosely) but he’s going to call it what it is. Time after school with Sam is just … a decompression time, really. Time to vent and look at memes and take turns watching “dude-I-swear-this-is-only-a-minute-long” videos on YouTube. Because sure, they’re students, and technically Netflix documentarians now, but all that’s left at the door in those few hours with Sam. It’s satisfying. It’s gratifying.

He reopens the Google Doc that’s blank, save for his name and a few stuttering attempts at a thesis, and pulls out Sam’s notebook. Sam had always been better at English. Peter supposes it must be a thespian thing -- tapping into character’s emotions, that sort of thing. Peter is about as emotional as a rock.

But his eyebrows furrow in confusion as he flips through Sam’s notebook. The pages are filled with numbers and tables, with Sam’s chicken-scratch boredom doodles in the margins. Peter finds them somewhat endearing -- a visual record of Things Sam Thinks About in his Statistics class -- but even so, it’s still not notes on Thomas Hardy. Which he needs.

Peter flips through the rest of the pages. Maybe Sam is the rare sort of person who uses one notebook for two subjects? It’s a thought.

In the midst of the numbers and otherwise blank pages, eventually Peter is rewarded with a page of text. Okay, promising. His eyes drift to the date.

_10/15/17_

Today, perfect.

_Peter,_

_I like you._

Wait, what?

Peter flips through the next few pages. Still text, but his eyes fall to Sam’s signature, perched near the top of the next page. A letter. It’s … a letter. One that never got sent, and one that’s meant for him, Peter.

His heart starts to pound, blood thundering in his ears. He’s overcome with an itch of curiosity that he recognizes from his _Vandal_ days; an itch that, left unscratched, would leave Peter with little else to think about. A tiny part of him feels bad for prying into Sam’s personal life like this -- clearly, it was unsent, untorn from the perforation for a reason -- but he’s already here, so he might as well. He turns back the page.

 _Okay, I said it. I like you._ ~~_I’ve always wanted to s_ ~~

What does he mean, he likes him? Of course Sam likes him, they’re best friends. He would hope Sam liked him.

 _I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’m not even saying it out loud and I’m still nervous as hell._ ~~_You always make m_ ~~

That doesn’t make sense, why would Sam be so nervous -- ?

_I guess the point of this is I just wanted you to know, just once. I like you -- like-like you. I have a crush on you._

Oh. What. Um.

Peter forces himself to look up and away at a Tarantino poster above his desk, out of sheer secondhand embarrassment for Sam. This is -- this is private. If Sam wanted to tell him this, he would’ve told him, not written it in the back of his Stat notebook.

A buzz startles him from the page before him. His phone, face down on his desk, is buzzing itself to the metal of his pen cup. Peter peeks at the lock screen.

**ketchup packet  
** _Pete, I gave you the wrong notebook. My bad_

**ketchup packet  
** _I can give you the right one tomorrow, ok? Just give the math one back to me asap_

**Missed call (2): ketchup packet**

Heart pounding, he debates answering, but he can’t speak right now. He can’t even think. His throat is dry, like it’s been coated in sandpaper. Peter lets his phone fall face down again, and drops his eyes back to the letter.

_Peter,_

_I like you._

_Okay, I said it. I like you._ ~~_I’ve always wanted to s_ ~~ _I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’m not even saying it out loud and I’m still nervous as hell._ ~~_You always make m_ ~~

_There, I phrased it, like, three different ways. So now there’s no way you can misunderstand (but, knowing you, you’ll find a way, I’m sure.) I’ve liked you since I was fifteen, but I can’t tell you how or why, exactly._ ~~_Guess my gaydar started beeping_ ~~ ~~_I think you just looked really good in that one j_ ~~ _Sorry, I’m bad at this._

Peter’s heart pushes hard at his chest with every beat, so hard that he almost feels lightheaded. The part of him that thinks it’s a joke is fading fast, and he stares at that line for a full ten seconds. _I’ve liked you since I was fifteen._ God, that’s -- two years! Peter liked to think himself a pretty observant guy, but is he really so oblivious?

 _That’s all there is, I guess. Well -- no, it’s not. There’s more, tons more. I just don’t know how to say it. I’m not good with words like you are. The monologues you wrote for Vandal were killer, even if you did keep sending me revisions at 4 AM. You’re so goddamn stubborn, and anal-retentive. I always get on you about that, but I_ ~~_love_ ~~ _like that about you. You don’t give up._

Peter runs his finger over the word that Sam’s put a squiggle through, the indentations of the paper rough under his fingertip. _I love that about you._

_Okay, listen. You know I like you now, so I guess I’ll put the reasons why, ‘cause I know you’ll wanna know._

_Reasons I Like You:_

  * _You’re driven. You say you’re gonna do something, and you do it._


  * _You don’t care what people think about you._


  * _You can be bossy sometimes, a little black-and-white about things. But once someone (me) calls you out you always apologize._


  * _You’re really good at remembering little things, like how I hate anything that’s orange-flavored, or that the root beer floats from Peach Valley are my favorite post-exam splurge._


  * ~~_You smell like every good childhood memory I’ve had_~~


  * _Your eyelashes are, like, stupid long and unfair. Even Gabi says so, and the girls on the Morning Show._ ~~ _If you really wanted, you could bat your eyelashes when you want something, and I wouldn’t say no._~~


  * _When you’re into something, you’re_ _into_ _something._


  * ~~_I just_~~ _I feel like you understand me, on a level that Dylan or Randall or even Gabi can ever hope to reach. We have a crazy ton of inside jokes and memories and laughs_ ~~ _, and I really can’t imagine my life without y_~~



_Wow, pretty gay, huh? Yikers._

Oh. Wow. Um. Hm. That’s … wow. One hand props his head up on his desk, hiding the biggest, dopiest grin anyone had ever seen on Peter Maldonado. It’s so surreal, to see this in Sam’s writing. To hear it in his voice. Part of him still refuses to believe this is reality -- that it’s all some warm, delicious dream, and he hopes that he never wakes up.

_I know it’s pretty useless to say “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.” Because I know it will, if I ever told you this stuff. I mean, it’s 2017, I know you won’t care, but it’s one thing to be bi and another to have a crush on your straight best friend who gets off to American Apparel catalogues (do you still do that? What an analog way to do it, but okay)._

_You say that I’m confident, and comfortable in my own skin, because I do plays and I always ask the questions you dance around. And that’s true, to an extent. But look at me now, Peter, writing you a letter of things I’m too scared to say. Sometimes I do think about telling you everything. I think about just blurting it out: “Peter, I like you. I’ll be throwing myself off Southend Pier this afternoon, but I’m free for a date anytime before that.”_

Sam is gay.

No, he’s … what? Bi. Oh. Oh, Peter is _stupid._ That should’ve been the first shock, but he’s been swept up in a flurry of butterflies and red cheeks that he’d kind of skipped over it. Sam is bi. And he has a crush on him. On _him._ Peter’s mother says he can be self-absorbed at times, and this is pure proof of that. By this point Sam has said he likes Peter at least six times, but for some reason the shock of that statement hadn’t set in until … now.

 _I don’t know._ ~~_I just want_ ~~

~~_It’s not fair how_ ~~

~~_I wish I could_ ~~

_I’ve never dated anyone, but I think I’d be a good boyfriend. I’ve watched enough rom coms (and you have too, ‘cause of me. Ha ha) to know what to do, like lending my jacket when they’re cold, and getting them flowers, and standing up for them. I’ve always wanted to go to sleep knowing someone’s thinking of me, and not the other way around._ ~~_In all honesty I had thought_ ~~

~~_I had kind of hoped_ ~~

_Sometimes, I like to imagine what it’d be like if we were together. You tell me I’m a romantic, and God, it is so true. I can feel myself blushing as I write this, I’m so pathetic. Because I always had this feeling that maybe, you’d be my first. You’re already my first for so many things (first friend, first David Lynch movie experience, first co-creator of a successful Netflix series …), and I thought maybe ‘first boyfriend’ wouldn’t be so out of place._

_It still feels like you could be, too.These little moments in time where, just for a second, I can pretend you like me, too. Like when I look up and you’re already looking at me, or when you lean up against me when we’re watching movies, or when you laugh at one of my awful jokes that both of us know isn’t funny. But I know you’re just being Peter, my best friend since third grade. I know that’s all it’ll ever be, just studying and sleepovers and lazy weekends and me, wanting more._

Again, Peter forces himself to look back up at that Tarantino poster, Uma Thurman glaring at him almost accusingly. His cheeks are burning hotter than ever. That was close. That was way too close.

He glances back down at the page. Only a few more lines to go.

 _So … I guess that’s all. Now you can REALLY say you know everything about me. Writing it all out feels good._ _~~I wish I could actually tell you all of this~~. _ _Maybe I’ll give you this letter in, like, ten years, when I’m not so nervous anymore and we’re both nominated for our third Oscars._

~~_Sincerely,_ ~~

~~_Love,_ ~~

~~_Yours truly_ ~~

_Yours, truly,_

_Sam_

God. The fucking comma. Sam really does watch too many rom coms. And yet … Peter bites his lip, failing to squelch another grin.

He reads it again. Then, when he can’t sit still anymore, starts to pace, then ends up sitting on the edge of his bed. The shock and confusion are finally starting to ebb away, and every time he looks at Sam’s letter he fights the urge to grin like a complete fucking moron. He swears he’s one swoon away from falling onto his bed with his notebook clutched to his chest like a twelve-year-old girl.

Peter Maldonado is nothing special. At least, not before _Vandal._ Not before the Netflix deal, and then people he had gone to school with for at least eight years finally seemed to notice him. He’s not eloquent or outgoing like Sam, or funny and memorable like Dylan. In fact, Peter has accepted he’s kind of the most unmemorable person ever. It was funny, honestly, how he’d been doing the news three mornings out of the week every week for two years now and _still_ not have people recognize him. He’s not snappy or quick-thinking like Christa, and he’s not sweet or resourceful like Gabi. He’s nothing. He’s Peter Maldonado, film geek extraordinaire, American Apparel catalog hoarder, collector of ticket stubs and Pop figures. No one has a crush on him. No one _would_ have a crush on him.

But apparently, someone does. His co-host on the Morning Show. Co-producer of _American Vandal._ Co-everything in his life. Sam Ecklund.

His phone is buzzing at an alarming rate now, but he can't answer Sam just yet. He flips through the pages for the dozenth time, smiling like a maniac. His best friend, his -- he allows himself to think the word with an exhale -- his _crush_ thinks he’s something more than _just Peter._

He blinks up at the ceiling. The ceiling. _Shit,_ he’s doing that thing -- laying on his back with Sam’s notebook pressed to his chest. But he can't help it. He turns so that he's on his side, tugging the sleeve of his hoodie between his teeth.

Sam would want him to try. He knows that much. He said it himself, it’s 2017. They both like each other,  so … why not?

 _Why not??_ He groans and pulls his hood up, tightening the strings, as though physically trying to block those thoughts from ever entering his consciousness. What if it didn’t work out? What then? Would they still be _Peter-and-Sam?_ Would he still have his best friend? Peter has never really functioned without Sam. They’ve been attached at the hip since they were eight. What would he do without Sam? Honest, eye-rollingly funny, romantic, Sam.

So, it’s decided.

He can’t do it. Can’t risk it.

He peers out of his hoodie long enough to skim over the letter once again.

_I love that about you._

_You don’t give up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowww they're really something huh!! this may turn into a 4-parter depending on how long i want to torture them. but we'll see! 
> 
> also, i just wanted to add: the soulmate fic is well under way. don't worry, i haven't forgotten it! i know what's going to happen, but writing... c'est difficile. 
> 
> come say hi to me @connorsquarter! i love hearing your predictions, fave parts, etc !!


	3. Chapter 3

After nine texts, four unanswered calls, five Snapchats, five Instagram DMs, and even a desperate e-mail, Sam curses Peter’s non-phone-checking habits into oblivion. He crawls into bed and buries his head in the pillow and bites back the urge to just fucking _scream;_ what comes out instead is a pitiful groan. How could he be so _stupid?_

He shifts his head so that he’s resting his chin on the pillow now, and even in his misery his eyes drift to his Polaroid collection. It’s a mosaic of photos taped to his headboard, with overexposed smiles and lensflare warping the colors. There’s the Morning Show crew at that end-of-year breakfast last year. Peter’s sixteenth birthday. Sam and Gabi at the spring drama banquet. Peter looking at the camera curiously, with half a Twizzler hanging out of his mouth. Him and Peter at the Netflix launch just last month, which a nice reporter had taken for him. Peter studying. Peter driving. Peter, Peter, Peter.

He lets his cheek fall onto his arm, closing his eyes as he feels the pinprick of tears. He’s going to lose all these moments. Listening to Peter’s soft breathing during one of their Friday night sleepovers, until he falls asleep too. The intermittent tapping of laptop keys, pages turning, when they _actually_ buckle down and study together. Peter’s soft, hazel eyes catching his from across a room. The breathless anticipation they both have when they’re watching a _really_ good movie, gripping each other’s arms. The butterflies and blushes and all these little moments that mean so much more than they should.

 _And Peter would’ve been none the wiser,_ Sam thinks as he finally drifts off to sleep, _if I had just given him the right goddamn notebook._

* * *

_Be cool._

That’s what Sam thinks when he sees Peter in the hallway the next morning. It’s a rare day for Sam Ecklund to rock the messy, just-rolled-out-of-bed look -- usually he goes for that polished, gelled look. He debated even skipping, but he’s too much of a goody two-shoes. And besides, he _really_ needs that notebook back. Like, _urgently._

“Hey.”

Sam’s hand halts on the locker dial. “Uh, hey.” He steals a furtive glance at Peter, noting the ever-present eyebags, the same hoodie from yesterday. It looks like Peter got about as much asleep as he did last night.

 _He read it,_ a terrible little voice whispers. _He had to._

Sam tries to not let this horrifying realization show in his face, and gets mixed results. He yanks the lock, and it doesn’t open. He spins the wheel and tries again.

Peter leans on the row of lockers. He frowns.  “You okay?”

“Uh … uh-huh.” Sam fruitlessly yanks the lock again. “ _Fucking --”_

Peter nods his head. “Wrong locker.”

“What?”

Peter jerks his head again. Sam looks. He’s right. Begrudgingly, he shifts two spots over to the left.

Peter rummages in his bag. “Here.” When Sam looks up, he’s holding out that stupid notebook. “Sorry, I didn’t read your texts until this morning.”

 _Yeah, you wouldn’t have,_ Sam thinks bitterly as he takes it. He shoves it onto a shelf and thrusts his English notebook at Peter. “Here. This one’s the right one.” He can’t look at him; he can feel himself turning red, and that is _not_ something he wants Peter to see this morning.

Peter takes it, but he doesn’t say anything. The air between them is thick with tension.

_He read it. He read it. He read it._

“I’ll see you on the Morning Show, okay?”

“Mhm.”

Peter lingers for a moment too long, like he’s about to say something. But Sam feels him brush by and the only thing that’s lingering now is a faint whiff of vanilla and Snuggle fabric softener.

When he's sure he's gone, Sam lets his forehead fall on the locker next to him with a resounding _clang._

_He read it._

* * *

Peter’s the first one in the Morning Show studio. He’s glad, because the first thing he does, after turning on the lights, is collapse into a desk chair and bury his head in his arms. He needs to think.

The way Sam had been messing with the wrong locker, his hair that’s missing its characteristic swoop -- no, it’s definitely clear Sam had a rough night. He’d looked awful: rumpled and frazzled and dead-tired. Privately, Peter feels that Sam had always been able to pull off the messy-sexy, I-woke-up-like-this look, if only he’d believe it. But then, Peter’s glad that he doesn’t, because he’d be way, _way_ too powerful if he rocked that look on the regular.

Sometime in ninth grade, Sam shot up in a rapid series of growth spurts, and the baby fat fell away from his face seemingly overnight. He never quite grew into his hands or feet, though, and is constantly tripping over himself. But other than that, Sam is still the earnest, outgoing guy Peter had always known him to be. Same faint freckles on the bridge of his nose, same dimple on his left cheek, same round, green eyes. Same cheeks that flushed pink at the smallest compliments or when it’s even a little too hot outside.

Normally, Peter would’ve put the brakes on that train of thought long ago. He would’ve batted it into the far corners of his mind and forced himself to think of physics or printers or the color beige. Today, he lets himself ease into the thought like a hot tub, and it leaves him just as warm, his heart stretching happily in his chest.

Sam, with his never-undying love for floral button-downs, and his awful, awful puns, and his penchant for rom coms. Sam, with his bold words and actions, who sometimes acted before he spoke. Sam, who likes him. Who has a crush on him. Who wants to date him. Sam, his best friend since they were eight. Who Peter…

Peter clenches his fist so tight that his knuckles turn white, tells himself not to be a pussy, and thinks it.

Sam, who Peter has a crush on. Who Peter also wants to date.

He feels like he did in grade school, when he’d take a hit from his inhaler and his lungs would miraculously open. He’s going to face it. No more lying, to himself and to Sam. He doesn’t deserve that.

He dives into his bag for a pen and a piece of paper. He clicks the pen a few times. He thinks about the writing exercises he’s done -- to just spit out everything on his mind at once, no editing, no fancy words. Just the barest-boned thoughts from deep within his gut.

_Things I like about you:_

  * _You’ve known me since forever_


  * _You’re taller than me. I like that, I think it’s cute_


  * _You gesture with your hands a lot when you get excited_


  * _You’re so passionate about stories and characters. I think if you could, you’d live in one of their worlds_


  * _I can talk to you. I can’t talk to a lot of people, you know that, but there’s always you and you always have something to say too  
  
_
  * _You're always right there by my side with me, even when I don't really deserve it_


  * _You love memories, like you collect Polaroids and receipts and things like that_


  * _Your string thing_


  * _Your_



Here Peter stops. What is he trying to say? The words are coming faster than he can write, but he can’t list every single thing, it’ll go forever. He likes everything about Sam (well, everything except Sam’s weird toleration of Owen Wilson movies). He leans over the paper again.

  * _Your everything_



He bites his lip, a rush of heartfelt, warm affection rushing through him, before making a small correction.

  * _You’re everything._



He’d watched those rom coms with Sam too, after all.

* * *

There are three ways this can go, Sam figures.

The most likely scenario, from what he knows about Peter: he’ll catch him between classes. After school, maybe. Or, even more painfully, through a text. But no matter how he chooses to reach out, it’ll be this: a gentle, but firm let-down. _Sorry, I don’t see you that way. I like girls. Can we just forget this ever happened?_ And Sam will say _Yes, okay, please_ immediately, and things will go back to the way they were. Or some semblance of it, anyway. Things will never be exactly the same.

Door number two: complete, utter, soul-crushing rejection. Even in the deepest recesses of his heart Sam knows Peter’s not like that, but he has to consider all the options. _What, were you hitting on me this whole time? We can’t be friends after this, Sam._ It’s a terrifying prospect, one that Sam is locking away under _Worst Case Scenarios,_ right there with _The earth really is flat_ and _Love, Actually gets removed from Netflix._

The last possibility: Peter won’t mention it at all. They’ll go on as they’ve been, pretending nothing ever happened. They’ll just stay floating in this weird limbo forever, like parallel lines: close together, but never once meeting. Honestly, that would probably be the best outcome. Sam has pretended for the past two years, so he can do it some more.

As of right now, that’s what it’s looking like. Peter seems to be stubbornly pretending nothing is happening, so Sam is stubbornly pretending nothing is happening, too. At lunch their interactions had been so weird and strained that even Ming, who has the perception of a blade of grass, asked if they’d had a fight. Peter said no and Sam had only shifted uncomfortably, quietly stabbing the straw through his Capri-Sun.

Then Randall had piped up. “God, it’s like you guys are married or something.”

Sam had offered a weak smile, but his gaze fell back to Peter, who was bent intently over his calc homework, seemingly already over the conversation.

Except.

Except for the gentle, definite flush staining the tips of his cheeks.

And Sam’s heart had started to pick up pace.

* * *

_Is there a door number four?_

This is a question that loops in Sam’s mind the rest of the day.

_Is there another option? A chance?_

He’s loitering outside the drama classroom with the other drama kids after school, waiting for the cast list. Mrs. Kirby, their harried, five foot even, self-described crazy cat lady teacher would pop out any second, tack up the list, and duck back inside before the mob of hopefuls could surge forward.

But to be quite honest, Sam’s not really thinking about that right now.

Gentle let-down; rejection; nothing. Those were the options Sam had laid out. The only ways he can imagine Peter’s response. But ever since that moment at lunch, he’s been thinking. Hoping. Stupid, pointlessly hoping. Everyone around him is hoping for a part in One-Act Wonders, but he’s hoping for a spot in Peter’s heart.

_What if he…_

The chatter around him rises. It’s almost 3:15. Mrs. Kirby would be out soon.

_What if Peter…_

Sam drifts a little further away; the mob seems too intense right now. He leans on the lockers. A few feet away, a girl pores over a music video on her phone with her friend. The tune is a cheerful one, led by a ukulele.

 _Oh, would you be so kind as to fall in love with me?_  
_You see, I’m trying, I know you know that I like you  
But that’s not enough, so if you will please fall in love with me_

* * *

“Hey,” Sam whispers, and Peter jumps, tugging out his earbuds.

“Oh -- uh, hey.” Peter waits in the library while Sam has rehearsal or other after-school things, so Peter can give him a ride home. He likes to sit at the table in the mystery section, since no one would ever venture _that_ far into the Hanover Media Center. Peter had known he wouldn’t have to wait long for Sam to see the cast list, but he’d already spread out and started his chem homework. Hurriedly, he begins to scoop it up. “Sorry, I got kinda wrapped up -- how’d it go?”

Sam pulls up a chair. He grins, rakes his hand through his already on-end hair (Peter tries, and fails, to keep his heart rate stable).  “You’re looking at Kyle Violet in Paige Schuster’s tour de force, _Dinner With The MacGuffins._ ”

Peter has no idea what any of that means, but he smiles up at him regardless. “Oh, dude, that’s awesome! I’m really happy for you.”

Sam just gives a one-shouldered shrug, the dimple in his cheek deepening. “It’s nothing. Here, let me help y --”

Their fingers brush over Peter’s binder, a single static shock jumping between them when their skin meets. Sam’s hand jumps back like he’s been stung.

“Uh, sorry.”

Peter keeps his gaze trained on his stuff. “No, that was probably me. I’ve been walking on carpet in a hoodie, so …”

It didn’t hurt, anyway. Just an odd, but not unpleasant, tingle. He stands to shoulder his bag and --

Oh.

Peter’s heart stutters in his chest. They’re closer than he’d thought. Much closer. Sam must’ve stepped in to grab overlooked loose leaf paper, and now that they’re facing each other there’s barely two inches between them. Peter’s weight teeters back and forth, caught between stepping back with an apology and … something else. Standing on tiptoe and --

And …

Peter doesn’t mean to, he swears he doesn’t, but for a moment his eyes drop to Sam’s lips, and -- no! -- Sam chooses _that_ moment to lick his bottom lip. Otherwise, he seems almost as paralyzed as Peter is.

Fuck.

Peter is _fucked._

Peter wants to -- he wants to --

_Don’t be a pussy._

Peter wants to kiss him.

Sam’s eyes flick down, and he gently taps Peter’s chest with the papers. His voice is a shade rougher than normal. “Here.”

Peter can only swallow and nod. Several times. “Uh… thanks.” He turns to shove the cursed (blessed?) papers into his bag, and it's only then that he realizes that his knees are wobbling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow okay, so i did make it four parts since i wanted to torture them longer. [owen wilson voice] waow. 
> 
> song mentioned is 'would you be so kind' by dodie. 
> 
> as always, let me know what you think, either here or on tunglr dot hell @connorsquarter!! see you in the next one!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooo, we made it! 
> 
> i strongly advise listening to "reprise" from the spirited away soundtrack, by joe hisaishi, while reading this! it's so tender and triumphant and it's the exact Mood(tm) of this. 
> 
> thanks for reading! hope you enjoy!!

Three days have passed since Peter read the letter, two since that --  _moment_ in the library. And Sam hasn’t been faring any better. As much hope as he’d had for a fourth option -- the tiny inkling of the notion that _maybe_ Peter might like him back -- it’s fading fast, the reality of Door Number Three sinking in. _Nothing._ Peter hasn’t mentioned the letter or the library at all, and it’s already Friday.

That’s kind of rude, Sam thinks as he punches his pillow into a more comfortable shape. For all this trouble, he kind of hopes that Peter _did_ read the letter.

He rolls the thought around in his head, like a marble.

He _wants_ Peter to have read the letter. He _wants_ him to respond to it, no matter what happens. Even if the bad outcomes outnumber the good. He’s tired of waiting, tired of agonizing. It’s like when he’s sick and he can’t remember life with a clear nose; right now, he can’t remember life without this leaden ball in his chest that appears whenever he thinks of Peter.

His sister passes by his room and sighs. “Are you still moping?”

Sam’s head shoots up from his pillow. “I’m not _moping._ ”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause wallowing in your room all day, only leaving for the occasional depression meal of cheese sticks and pretzels, doesn’t _scream_ moping.”

“Words hurt, y’know?” He frowns. She’s holding a plate and a glass of milk. “What’s that?”

“A snack. It’s for _me,_ though, so don’t even try asking for some.”

“Is that milk? You’re lactose intolerant, Soph.”

“Well, what am I supposed to eat Oreos with? Juice?” She puts the food on his desk (it looks like a hodgepodge of Oreos and graham crackers), and then belly flops onto his bed, propping her chin in her hands. Sophie is four years younger than him, and Sam is thankful that, in all his life, he has never had to attend the same school as her at the same time. She’s thirteen, still in braces, and is in the peak “I’m officially a teenager so I know _everything_ ” phase.

Case in point: “Something’s going on,” she says.

“Get out of my room,” Sam mumbles, but his heart isn’t in it.

She pokes him. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

“Is it about Peter?”

“No.”

“Are you fighting?”

Sam’s head pops up from the pillow in annoyance. “ _No._ ”

“Then what?”

He lets his head fall back into the cushion. “It’s complicated,” he says through a mouthful of fabric.

She shakes his shoulder. “So tell me,” she says again.

“Why should I?”

“Because I know you, and I know Peter. And even though I know the point of a little sister’s existence is to annoy her older brother … it kind of sucks, seeing you like this.”

Sam pouts for another five seconds. Then he caves. Going around and around in circles in his own head for the past three days is making him crazy.

So he sits up, sighs, clutches the pillow to his chest, and starts talking.

* * *

 

“So let me get this straight,” Sophie says as she drops her Oreo in the milk glass. “You wrote him like, this crazy love letter. That was never supposed to be sent.”

Sam watches the milk fill the cracks. He breaks a graham cracker in half. “Uh-huh…”

“But you gave him the notebook that had the letter in it. And he gave it back to you, but you think he read the letter.”

“Mhm…”

“And you guys haven’t talked about it yet.”

Sam dips one half of the graham cracker in the milk forlornly.

Sophie shakes her head and fishes her Oreo out. “I can’t believe you guys.”

“Huh?”

“Just talk to him!” she says around a mouthful of Oreo. “He’s your _best friend,_ Sam. If there’s anyone you can talk to about _anything,_ it’d be him.”

“That’s the thing,” Sam protests. “It could change everything. It could _ruin_ everything.”

“What are you talking about?” Sophie’s phone lights up with a text, and she starts replying with her ring finger. She’s been texting someone on and off the whole time, and Sam’s only slightly annoyed at that. This is _his_ crisis, after all.

“Our friendship. If it-- we-- you know! Whatever happens, it’d change … _us,_ and I can’t risk that.” Sam bites into his graham cracker and chews in a morose sort of way.

“Even if it changed for the better?” Sophie wheedles, and despite the swell of his heart at the thought, Sam scoffs.

“Don’t. Please. I don’t want to get my hopes up over something that’s not gonna happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Soph, I told you. No false hope.”

“Sam. Even if you dated and broke up, it's not the end of the world.”

Sam polishes off the rest of the cracker. “Yes it is.”

“Like, me and Danny Norman? We dated for a whole three weeks and broke up, and we’re fine.”

Sam wrinkles his nose. “You dated Danny Norman?” His brother, Alex, is in Sam’s Statistics class. He’s popular, in that future-frat-boy and pastel shorts kind of way. Sam can only imagine Danny is a miniature version of that, and that's something he does _not_ want his little sister around. And anyway, he doesn't trust people who have a first name as their surname.

She snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Focus! You're overthinking this. It’s not that deep.”

The doorbell rings. She sucks the milk off her thumb and jumps up. “Peter’s here.”

Sam almost falls off the bed. He had _not_ expected that to come out of Sophie’s mouth. “I -- he -- what?”

“I texted him. Seems like the problem you guys are having is that _you’re not talking_. So talk.”

Sam pulls aside his curtain and, sure enough, there’s Peter’s beat-up Subaru in the driveway. His heart gives a nervous flutter; it feels like the moments before opening night, when he's peeking at the audience from backstage. Only this time is worse, because he doesn’t know the script, and he doesn’t know how it’s going to end.

His sister disappears around the corner with the plate, and Sam scrambles up out of bed. “Sophie! Shit -- ”

“Answer the door, lover-boy,” is all she says. “I accept payment through Baskin-Robbins.”

Her door shuts, and the doorbell rings again. Sam hesitates.

_So talk._

"Fuck."

He hurries down the stairs.

* * *

 

Sam catches his reflection in the giant mirror hanging in the foyer, and quickly rakes a hand through his hair. Though he doesn’t exactly know _why;_ it doesn’t really make it look any better, and besides, it’s only Peter.

His stomach flip-flops. _Only Peter._

Sam’s head has barely cleared the door before he hears a “Hey.”

“Uh… hey."

“Your sister said she needed help with her algebra homework?”

Sam’s mouth opens and closes, like a goldfish. So that’s how she got Peter here. “Oh, uh-- no, no, she gets it now. You know. Just had to marinate for a little bit.”

Peter shifts, an almost imperceptible look of confusion flitting across his face. “Oh.”

For a moment neither of them seem to know what to say. The only thing that fills the air is the sound of the neighbor’s sprinklers.

Then, they both speak at once.

“I think I’ll --”

“Do you wanna --?”

Sam swallows. It’s like the verbal equivalent of doing that odd sidestep shuffle when you’re not sure whether the person in front of you is going to go right or left. He clears his throat. “Uh, do you wanna-- do you wanna come in? Since you came all this way.”

Peter just looks at him for a few seconds, only to nod and say, “Sure.”

There’s a moment where Peter toes off his shoes in the foyer. The nervous buzz still hasn’t gone away: in fact, it’s only amplified now that Peter’s here, with just a few feet between them. It’s the first time they’ve been alone since Peter drove him home on Wednesday, after what happened in the library. For the past two days Sam has been taking the bus home, he’s so fucking embarrassed to be around Peter. It’s loud and crowded and it takes almost an hour to get home, but he’s sure he’d burst into flames if he had to endure another tense ride with Peter again.

But now they’re in his bedroom, the late afternoon sun attempting to beam through his curtains, tinting the room a dark green. Sam turns on a lamp.

Peter drops his bag and speaks first. “So… what’s up with you?”

It’s an olive branch, and Sam clings to it like a lifeline in a stormy ocean. He shrugs, and he feels some of the tension leave his shoulders.

“Nothing. I, uh, got the script for One-Act Wonders today.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“Mhm.” Sam starts chewing his thumbnail; a nervous habit from grade school that had never really left him. “You?”

“Um. Lots of _Vandal_ emails today.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Well, someone burned a dick into a school’s football field.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Wow.”

“Yeah. But, uh, I didn’t reply. It’s not interesting enough.”

Sam has to chuckle a little at that. They’d have to receive an email like _Someone came over every water fountain in school. We call him the Semen Demon_ for Peter’s interest to even be a _little_ piqued.

They lapse into another silence. Silence is rare for them, reserved only for the hardest of studying and the worst of fights. But now, they’re doing neither, and Sam doesn’t know what to think. He rips off a sliver of his thumbnail.

“Sam,” Peter finally says. He takes a deep breath, as if the words cause him physical difficulty. “I actually-- I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

And just like that, it hits him all at once. It’s happening. Peter knows. Peter knows everything, and now Sam has to face him and the consequences here in his bedroom. The likelihood of rejection is still high, and he’s already preparing himself for the gentle letdown, rehearsing his response in his head: _Yeah, sure, no problem. I was really tired when I wrote that. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Let’s just forget about it, okay?_

Sam squares his shoulders and does his best to keep his face neutral.

This is it.

A sense of finality is shimmering between his temples, in the pit of his stomach. Even the air around them, the trees outside; they know this is it. This is the end of the line; this is where it stops. For better or worse. The secrets, the half-truths, the lies. He can’t hide them anymore. Even if he asks Peter to just forget about it. Peter can’t un-know the letter.

They’ve been avoiding it all week, pretending the letter doesn’t exist, hanging onto that last thread of normality. But now that’s gone, too.

Sam can’t tell if he’s excited or scared.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, when Peter reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of notebook paper. Sam’s stomach executes a wide range of gymnastic feats when Peter holds it out with an unceremonious “Actually … here.”

All Sam can think is _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._ He didn’t prepare for this. Writing is not Peter’s style, at least confrontation-wise. He could write reports, sure. The narration for the doc, absolutely. But writing-- at least, the kind that involved thoughts and feelings-- is Sam’s thing. If Peter had to write something down-- couldn’t even say it to Sam’s face--

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is bad, I’m so fucked--_

But he’s determined to be strong. No matter what this paper says. No matter what Peter does.

Sam glances up at him, and immediately shies away from the eye contact. He takes the paper and unfolds it with a crisp rustle. His hands are shaking, but inside is a list, written in Peter's familiar untidy scrawl, entitled:

_Things I like about you._

* * *

 

Sam should be feeling something. Anything. He sinks onto the edge of his bed, an odd buzz filling his ears.

_Things I like about you:_

  * _You’ve known me since forever_


  * _You’re taller than me. I like that, I think it’s cute_



There it is.

His emotions pop back into place, and everything comes flooding in all at once.

This--

He--

Peter is--

  * _You gesture with your hands a lot when you get excited_


  * _You’re so passionate about stories and characters. I think if you could, you’d live in one of their worlds_


  * _I can talk to you. I can’t talk to a lot of people, you know that, but there’s always you and you always have something to say too_


  * _You’re always right there by my side with me, even when I don’t really deserve it_



Sam is sure he’s lobster-red-- spray-painted dick red-- and just as hot as those cars in the sun. His brain keeps getting stuck, like an old record, hitching and looping the same thoughts over and over.

He isn’t prepared for this.

This isn’t-- this can’t be--

  * _You love memories, like you collect Polaroids and receipts and things like that_


  * _Your string thing_


  * _You’re everything._



Sam finds Peter’s vague form in his peripheral vision, and it takes him a moment to will himself to look up. Peter sits in Sam’s desk chair, messing with his adjustable desk light. Three different impulses hit Sam at once, and the result is a weird kind of body stutter. He wants to pocket the list; tuck it away safely and carry it like a talisman. He wants to hold it close, right over his heart the way girls do sometimes. And, more than anything, he wants to read it over and over again, because it’s just starting to hit him that this is _real,_ somehow, impossibly.

He glances over the last line.

  * _You’re everything._



The _e_ is squished in that little space, almost like an afterthought. It’s not hard to discern that it had once been _Your everything._

Goddammit, Peter.

 _Oh my God,_ he thinks. _You’re such a dork, you’re such a cheesy dork, you’re an idiot. God, I love you._

There’s a swell of affection rising within him, just above his diaphragm, warm as bathwater and as weightless as dandelion seeds. It joins the other things that are bouncing around inside him like ping-pong balls. The hesitant fringes of happiness. Lingering disbelief. And slowly, his brain begins to believe what his eyes are telling him.

“You like me?” he blurts out. It’s the first phrase that makes it to his mouth, and quite honestly he’s just glad he said anything in English. He glances back down at the list, just to make sure it hasn’t dissolved in his hand somehow.

Peter turns to face him, resting his arms on the back of the chair. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Um… yeah? Yeah.” His shoulders visibly fall, as though releasing a long-held breath.

He seems so far away. There can’t be more than two feet of space between them, but it’s still not enough. They may as well be shouting across a football field. But Sam can’t move. He can only stare, frozen.

“You like me,” Sam repeats. Softer, gentler.

No let-down. No rejection.

A dip in the mattress tells him Peter’s joined him on the bed, anxiously tugging at the sleeves of his flannel. “It’s not a problem, is it?”

Sam straightens. He looks at him. “I think you know the answer to that one.”

Peter acquiesces with a small grin. “I… may have read the letter.” When Sam gives a playful scoff and rolls his eyes, he throws his hands up in surrender. “In my defense, you should’ve given me the right notebook from the start.”

Sam’s smile, that gesture, is so characteristic of them that the tension relaxes. The half-uncomfortable strain between them goes lax and disappears, and Sam finally folds up the list and slips into this shirt pocket. But they’re not out of the woods yet. He feels like he’s playing a visual novel, and is faced with a particularly difficult set of dialogue choices.

_So what happens now?_

_If you don’t want to date me, that’s fine. Sexually charged best friends is fine._

_I wanted to kiss you in the library the other day. Full homo._

Sam decides to cut to the chase, and takes another breath. “Pete, if you don’t want to-- to d--” but Peter cuts him off.

“I want to,” he says, softly. Impossibly softly. “I want to try.”

The potent concoction of disbelief and happiness-- bubbling, hesitant joy-- is popping and fizzing and shining in his chest, like sparklers woven in between his ribs. “You really want--” Sam falters, partly in shock that this conversation is actually happening, and partly because he wants it to go right. His shaking hands start to gesture, but they’re sitting so close together that they just end up bumping into Peter.  It’s in that moment that his brain short-circuits, and he says the other dialogue option: “I wanted to kiss you in the library the other day.”

A look of surprise flits across Peter’s face. “Uh, you did?”

_Holy shit. I just said that. I actually just said that. Is this happening? I’m dead. I’m in a coma or something. I fucked it all up._

But Sam only nods, turning his gaze back to his hands in his lap. That was-- way out of line. It was one thing to _like_ Peter, but to want to kiss him when they aren’t even _dating_ yet--

Are they?

“I wanted to, too.”

Sam’s breath catches in his throat, and he swallows with some difficulty. “Oh?”

Peter’s not looking at him either, and is positively shredding his shirt sleeves now. “Uh-huh.”

Then, as though Sam’s brain still isn’t done with the rapid firing: “Still want to?”

_God!!!! Please let me be in a coma!!!_

He forces himself to look up, and maybe it’s just his imagination, but they’re inching closer. Leaning in. Sam’s skin lights up in tingling shivers, but he can’t move. Doesn’t want to.

“Uh-huh,” is the last thing Peter says before their lips finally touch in the middle.

It’s not perfect. In fact, it’s a little clumsy and a little fumbling, and Sam has no idea what the fuck to do with his arms, and is he supposed to breathe through his nose or just hold his breath? Who knows? Not Sam. But it’s better than perfect. It’s real.

They lean back and Sam fights a wave of shyness. What are you supposed to do _after_ a kiss? Movies never show that part. The kiss is the end; cut. Roll credits.

“Uh,” is all Sam can say.

“Stop,” Peter says, gently. “I don’t want to think anymore. I’m tired of it.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. "Sounds reasonable."

And finally, finally, he lets go.

It’s weird. Obviously the actual sensations are new, but the feelings they stir up are undeniably familiar, to the point that Sam has a bizarre moment of deja vu. Did he dream this? Did their past selves kiss like this during the Civil War or something? It feels like it’s part of some dance that they both know by muscle memory, puzzle pieces that fit together despite the rough edges.

Technically, Sam has more experience with kissing, with the stage kisses from class and from plays. But none of them had been _real_ ; just two acquaintances touching lips because the stage directions told them to. Nothing more.

But kissing Peter is like the first breath after a long nightmare. Waking up and realizing it’s okay.

The stomach-swooping moment that he’d get as a kid, riding his bike down a hill and the bike chains are whirring and Sam feels like he can fly down that hill forever.

It’s laughing so hard and for so long at a sleepover, that tears are running down his cheeks and his cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

It’s the first chord of his favorite song, the instant recognition, the comforting familiarity. Like some part deep in his chest trills: _Oh, it’s you._

Halfway through, his mind jumps to the letter. That stupid, cursed, shining ray of light, letter. A giggle bubbles up halfway through, and Peter only pulls a fraction of an inch away.

“What?”

Sam can’t help but think of how he signed off on it.

_Yours, truly._

The list in his pocket sits quietly, hovering just above the thrumming of his heart. 

_You’re everything._

He shakes his head, still grinning. “Nothing.”

This can't possibly be real-- 

But it is. 

It is. 

* * *

Sophie's watching a YouTube video when she hears a knock on her door. 

"Come in," she says, moving her headphones off one ear. She turns; it's Sam. She grins. "What?" 

He leans on the doorknob, face scrunching together, feigning deep thought. "What's your favorite Baskin-Robbins flavor again?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, that's that on that. i feel so empty without this fic in my life now. i very rarely finish anything that's not a one-off, so i'm super happy that i've finished this! 
> 
> as always, drop me a line @connorsquarter on tumblr! see you next time!


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